by Jim Bradford
“The other children were asked to memorize the books of the Old Testament,” he told me.
“What about you?” I asked.
“The teacher didn’t ask me to do it.”
I said nothing at the time. I presumed that his teacher, who did not know the details concerning HK’s disabilities, thought he would be incapable of memorizing.
While giving HK a bath the following Saturday night, I nonchalantly mentioned the Sunday school assignment. “HK, do you think you could memorize the books of the Old Testament? If you did, it would surprise your teacher and classmates. You just might do the best job of anyone in the class.”
His small body immediately tensed, and he clapped his hands wildly, splattering water across the bathroom floor as he laughed. Not one to refuse a challenge, he shouted, “Yes, I want to! I know I can do it!” He prophetically added, “You know I have a good memory.”
Yes, I knew he had a good memory, but at that point I had no idea as to the extent of it. I retrieved my Bible and explained how we could prepare for the daunting task ahead. Reading from the index, I slowly, distinctly, and loudly pronounced each of the thirty-nine Old Testament books, starting with Genesis. Immediately he repeated each name. We continued our process until he finished the Old Testament. Within thirty minutes he was comfortably reciting each book in order from Genesis through Malachi with only minimal assistance.
“Congratulations, HK. You’re fantastic! You may have just set a Guinness World Record for memorizing the books of the Old Testament in the shortest time ever!”
“Mr. Bradford, do you think I really set a new world record?”
“Probably. Do you want to set another new record?”
“Yes. What new record?”
“Let’s memorize the books of the New Testament too.”
Repeating the same drill as before, we worked on naming the twenty-seven New Testament books for twenty-five minutes. He awoke early Sunday morning ready for his big reveal.
“Mr. Bradford, can I recite the books of the Bible this morning?”
“Well, I sure hope you can.”
He laughed and without hesitating began with Genesis and slowly repeated every book of the Bible until he reached Revelation. The grin on his face told me he was wide awake and ready for his Sunday school surprise.
Arriving at his classroom that morning, I told the teacher, “Good morning. HK has a little surprise for you and the class today.”
Clearly puzzled, she looked at HK, smiled, and said, “What’s your surprise, HK?”
“I’ve learned the books of the Bible, and I want to recite them to you like the other kids are doing.”
Caught off guard and a little skeptical, she smiled and cut her eyes my way, expressing a mixture of curiosity and doubt. Maybe she thought this was a joke.
“Class, please be quiet and listen carefully. HK will recite the books of the Old Testament.”
“Miss Jan?”
“Yes, HK?”
“I don’t want to recite the books of the Old Testament.”
“Oh, forgive me. I thought you said you wanted to name all the Old Testament books.”
“I want to recite all the books of the Bible.”
She was clearly more confused than ever. “O-kay. . . . That sounds pretty impressive to me. Class, please listen. HK is going to recite the books of both the Old and New Testaments.”
Without hesitating he began his recitation. He pronounced each name methodically and carefully in a calm speaking voice, displaying the same confidence he had exhibited while practicing. He named each of the Old Testament books and immediately plunged into the New Testament books, all the while exhibiting none of the muscular spasms usually caused by extreme excitement.
Desperately fighting tears, Miss Jan broke into spontaneous applause, joined immediately by the rest of HK’s amazed young classmates. They would have been even more impressed had they known he had accomplished this feat in a mere fifty-five minutes while splashing in the bathtub!
Until then Brenda and I had no solid evidence of HK’s remarkable memory. We knew he had an amazing gift for dates and was blessed with excellent recall of people, places, and events. But this episode marked the beginning of even more manifestations of his unusual abilities.
CHAPTER 24
William Returns
It was late winter 2006, when Pearl greeted the day grumbling, just as she had done most mornings of her life, but on this day there seemed to be little apparent reason. Fifteen-year-old HK had stayed overnight at the Tennessee School for the Blind campus, as he did one night a week, and so Pearl was able to sleep later than usual that morning, taking advantage of having the house to herself.
The weather forecast called for cold rain, yet another winter storm system bringing precipitation to middle Tennessee. Pearl couldn’t put a finger on it, but she had something like a premonition. Nothing in her world seemed wrong, yet some vague, unidentified uneasiness bothered her. Something bad seemed to hang in the air that day, and it wasn’t just the dreary weather.
Off work and with little on her agenda that morning, she was in no hurry to get dressed, eat breakfast, or tidy up the small kitchen. Midmorning the phone rang, and an unknown woman’s raspy voice greeted her from the other end. She introduced herself as a friend of William’s and gave her a message: “Your son wants to see you.” Without hesitating Pearl blurted out, “He knows where we live, and the phone number hasn’t changed.” Click, and Pearl ended the conversation.
Her head spun for a moment after she hung up the phone. She had prepared herself to one day hear news of William’s death—resolving years ago that he had most likely self-destructed and flamed out of this world with a bang—but she was not prepared for the prospect of ever laying eyes on him again. An hour later the phone rang once again, and William’s familiar smoker’s croak rattled from the other end. It had been ten years since she had heard his voice.
William bobbed and weaved his way through a tangle of tales describing his lost decade. He started with the last time Pearl had seen him—that day he left her at the gas station and headed for a day job in Columbia. He explained that he had had no intention of disappearing permanently, but later that night, with a little money in his pocket, he admitted getting high on alcohol and drugs. Then he hit a city police car and got locked up on multiple old and current charges. His benevolent employer and quasi-friend who had always looked out for him paid a bondsman to have him released from jail. But instead of honoring the conditions of his release, he hightailed it across the state line, met a woman in a bar, and began residency as a new Alabama citizen. He watched his back, settled down mostly with the new girlfriend, and stayed out of the law’s reach for almost ten years.
Pearl told me that William never shared with her what brought him back to Tennessee, but trouble followed him home. Maybe after ten years he thought memories would fade and the police would no longer be interested in a long-forgotten fugitive from justice. Maybe on “the grass is greener” principle he thought life in Maury County would be better than in Alabama. Maybe he thought his appearance had changed enough that he could settle in there without being recognized. What he had not counted on, however, was his inherently rotten luck.
One day while he was taking a fast-food lunch break, his sister-in-law happened to be eating in the same restaurant. She was shocked when she faintly recognized her husband’s long-lost brother. Keeping a low profile, she found a nearby telephone and called the Maury County sheriff’s office.
Police came and gladly took William to jail on a laundry list of outstanding charges going back years. A rookie public defender got him released on probation due to his long record of good behavior. He settled into Maury County life with another girlfriend, working sporadically as a roofer during the day while delivering pizzas at night.
But soon a little extra spending money stirred up William’s sleeping demons. While delivering pizzas drunk, he was arrested for DUI. This new seizure resulte
d in a probation violation that, in turn, caused all his previous charges to be reinstated. He promptly landed in the Maury County Jail and eventually got shipped off to state prison to serve the better part of a year.
Now he desperately needed something and had no one else to turn to, so he called Pearl. He was due to be released on parole in about thirty days, but an important condition for parole release was having a residential mailing address for at least ninety days. His only reason for calling her after ten years was to ask for a place to live while out on parole.
Pearl remembered how life had been with William in the same house, and she did not want to relive it. He was a heavy smoker, and she had found evidence of drugs when he lived there before. She wanted no part of him in the house, especially since HK had serious asthma and bronchitis flare-ups. “That’s just not happening again,” she told him.
Instead, she hatched a crazy idea on the spot and offered it during their conversation. She explained that she needed more storage space out back and had considered buying a storage shed, but her budget could not handle it. What if she bought the materials and he built her a shed to live in for ninety days? She figured he couldn’t tear it up too badly during that short time. Then he would move along somewhere else, leaving her a practically new storage building. He gladly accepted her offer.
I never heard news of a tearful mother-son reunion on that Tuesday, March 3, 2006, and I think I’m safe in presuming it didn’t happen that way. HK told me, however, that his daddy did give him a hug and said, “I’m building me a place to live.” HK remembered being excited about getting to know something about his dad.
One thing William could do well was carpentry. So in a matter of days, a spiffy-looking, gray-and-white, eight-by-twelve storage shed with a single window sprang up in Pearl’s backyard. William had a place to call home and a mailing address for ninety days. The only immediate problem he faced was the lack of plumbing and electricity. Pearl allowed him in the house when he needed to use the indoor plumbing, and he commandeered a long extension cord to light up the shed. This arrangement seemed to work just fine for all parties. After all, it was only temporary.
The family’s adjustment to having William back in their lives took awhile, especially for HK. Not long after his father’s return, I began noticing a somber change in his normally bubbly personality. He seemed withdrawn and preoccupied, and he appeared to be struggling with something. I feared he might have an undetected medical issue. But after talking more about it with him, the home-life picture became clear.
“Grammy won’t let him smoke in the house, and he doesn’t like it. He and Grammy scream at each other a lot.”
William was getting on Pearl’s nerves, and she anxiously counted the days until his next move. She had no idea where he might land, but she did not care. She just knew they would finally be rid of his explosive, unpredictable rage and its negative impact on her and HK.
Pearl’s recollection of Saturday, May 20, 2006, still causes her to shudder. It was one of those rare occasions when William was on his best behavior and allowed in the house. The estranged family sat at the kitchen table, watching the televised broadcast of the Preakness Stakes, the “second jewel” of horse racing’s Triple Crown. William had always complained of aches and pains from hauling shingles on his roofing job and the few other strenuous odds-and-ends jobs passed over by other day laborers. He never thought about his health and seldom visited a doctor. While watching the televised horse race, he complained more than usual of pain, especially around his chest. Pearl found an aspirin and gave him a glass of water, but the dull chest pain got progressively worse. No one knew it at the time, but William was having a heart attack. He survived and came home with two new stents holding open his clogged artery. The hospital booted him out after only a day because he had railed at, threatened, and berated the nursing staff.
It was a wake-up call for everyone but William. He throttled back his smoking habit but kept his other vices in high gear, including drinking and drugs. The most disturbing result of the crisis was that the damage to his heart changed his mind about finding alternative living arrangements. He had an old truck, zero responsibilities, and absolutely no motivation to leave his backyard nest. A modest monthly social security disability check eventually began appearing in his mailbox like clockwork. It seemed that Pearl and HK were stuck with him for good.
Pearl occasionally found him in a good mood, but at other times she complained, “He’s a gigantic pain in the butt.” He rarely ventured into the house unless invited, choosing instead to eat, shower, and wash clothes when they were not there. Pearl believed he had given up drinking in recent years because HK could no longer smell alcohol when he came around. William’s life depended on the goodness of strangers, girlfriends, and bar buddies, and he had no sense of priorities. HK once shared that the same tire on his daddy’s truck always ended up flat overnight. Rather than paying some measly amount to have it plugged, he just aired it up with an old bicycle pump whenever he needed to go somewhere.
It was a blessing that HK was well past his formative years when William came back into his life. Pearl had filled her grandson’s mind with an uplifting sense of positive reinforcement, so nothing William could ever do or say could change that foundation. HK never talks much about his father, but when something does come spilling out, it certainly sounds like the father-son roles are reversed. He has said to me more than once, “My daddy has made some poor life choices, and I wish he could get his life together.” I’m suspect HK has endured terrible language, bitterness, rage, and wild mood swings. I take comfort in knowing that my young friend sees clearly that this type of negative behavior adds up to nothing more than the shadow of what a man should be and that he has progressed beyond the point of having his life darkened by that shadow.
CHAPTER 25
Driving and Riding Blind
Two years after meeting HK, Brenda and I, along with close family friends, purchased equal interests in a home on Tims Ford Lake near Winchester, Tennessee. The scenic, two-hour drive from Brentwood and anticipation of glorious sun-filled days on the beautiful reservoir has always provided us a refreshing respite for our busy lives.
We wasted little time asking Pearl’s permission for HK to spend summer weekends at the lake with us. Our logic, which had worked pretty well up until now, was that he could have more time with us while enjoying the healthy outdoors with sun and fresh air—a better alternative to sitting alone at the restaurant. He was thrilled with the idea and, once again, Pearl graciously approved.
It took HK little time to adjust to the lake home and its surroundings. He enjoyed his bedroom, which had a closet and a chest for medications. The house also came complete with a wide-screen television for the young sports enthusiast. We did not, however, allow him to be a couch potato. We made sure his exercise needs were not ignored. Our covered, lakeside boat dock housed a late-model pontoon boat, but getting to it required navigating fifty steep steps from the back deck down to the lake below. Everyone got plenty of exercise navigating these steps.
Brenda enjoyed as much time on the lake as possible, and it didn’t take much to convince HK to join her. Hands down, his favorite lake activity was riding in our pontoon boat. Our presailing ritual consisted of removing his shirt, shoes, socks, and braces, drenching him with high SPF sunscreen, and slipping on his life vest.
The driver’s seat was wide enough for two people, so one hot Saturday afternoon as we drifted along in a quiet cove, I said, “HK, would you like to sit with me and help drive the boat?”
He became so excited that his entire body tensed, and he could barely utter a sound. Regaining composure, he finally said, “Brenda, Mr. Bradford is going to let me help him drive the boat.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Her voice sounded doubtful.
“It’s okay. I’m a careful driver.”
“HK, when did you start driving?” she asked. No one said a word because everyone knew the answer.
Each time we entered a congested area or began a parking maneuver, he graciously relinquished the steering wheel to me. Frequently he boasted to anyone who would listen that, not unlike being the world’s best blind airplane pilot, he was also the world’s best blind boat driver. It could be true, for all I know. There’s not likely to be much competition in either of those categories.
We’ve been fortunate so far that the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency Water Patrol has not stopped us while he’s behind the wheel. I’m not sure how I could explain turning over the helm of our boat to a young blind boy. I can just see the officer’s reaction when I explained that he “sees” with his one good hand and not his eyes.
Brenda, on the other hand, says there’s little reason to worry about the outcome of such a stop. She feels confident that with his ability to win friends and influence people, he could talk his way out of just about anything. I can only imagine how such a scene might unfold. The stern-looking water patrolman pulls alongside us and asks him for identification. Instead, HK replies, “We’re enjoying a great boat ride. It sure is a nice day for it, isn’t it, Officer?”
The unsmiling officer glares at him in silence.
“Have I met you before?” Silence.
“When’s your birthday?” More silence.
“Officer, I love you.”
At that point I can see the humorless officer’s heart melting and a reluctant smile breaking through his unsympathetic features. “It’s okay, young man. I’m going to let you go this time.” Then he turns to me, the frowning scowl returns to his face, and I can see that I’m not going to escape so easily. But I’m happy to report that this worrisome little scene has not happened—yet.
